


Dissuade One Foolish Heart

by anathemagerminabunt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Retirement, Reunion Fic, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anathemagerminabunt/pseuds/anathemagerminabunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock falls in love, John is obtuse, Sherlock leaves, John is distraught, Sherlock returns, and John finally puts it all into place-- a fic regarding the senses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissuade One Foolish Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saki101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/gifts).



> Based loosely (I cannot stretch that word enough) on five of Shakespeare's sonnets. Concrit adored and greatly appreciated.

  
_Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,  
My love shall in my verse ever live young._  
Sonnet 19

Deep in the back of the upstairs closet, behind a box of old textbooks and under a pile of linens they use only when company is over, sits a bright orange shock blanket. John had forgotten it was there. He tugs it out of the debris, hands lingering over the rough, scratchy fabric, thin and durable.

Puzzled, he gathers the blanket into his arms and makes his way downstairs.

“Sherlock?” 

Draped across the couch in a clear misuse of furniture, Sherlock projects his patented air of disinterest, blatantly ignoring John.

“Sherlock, you know, you're not supposed to keep these.” He waves the blanket about, as though to catch Sherlock's attention.

Craning his neck in a suggestion of monumental effort, Sherlock peers at the object through half-lidded eyes. “Ah. Well, I did.”

John stiffens. “I found it under an outdated biology text.”

“It's not outdated-- it's uncluttered with needless revisions.”

“Alright, an _uncluttered_ biology text. Were you hiding this?”

Sherlock flashes an unreadable expression. “Of course not, John. What do I care about a blanket?”

John falters. Why on earth _would_ Sherlock care about something as common as a blanket? He glances down, twisting his fingers in the unforgiving wool, one thought chasing another. “It-- it was under your things,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “It was with your things.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “As you've complained many times, most things in the flat are my things. It's not like you to obsess over linens, John.” He smirks, words sharp and cold like ice. “Is this a side effect of the barista rejecting you? I can't say that exuding loneliness and redirected obsession suits you.”

“No, I--” John cuts off with a flush. Unwilling to examine the reasons behind his sudden fascination, he swallows hard and drops the linen in a heap beside the coffee table. “Forget it. If you're not going to return it-- what am I saying, of course you're not. Just forget I said anything.”

John turns on his heel, stalking out of the room and up the stairs to his bedroom, where he's able to put one closed door and a full storey between himself and his infuriating flatmate.

Years later, during one of the worst afternoons of John's life, he carefully packs up every last trace of his former flatmate. He finds a worn, itchy, glaringly orange blanket, folded meticulously and with care that leaves him breathless, placed reverently beneath the head of what once was Sherlock's bed.

***

Bach's _BWV 1004 Chaconne_

  
_Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?  
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:_  
Sonnet 8

It is not the first time that John has come home to the sound of the violin filling the building. It probably won't be the last. Pausing with one foot on the first of seventeen stairs, John tries to place what it is that differentiates this time from all the others, before shaking his head slightly and continuing up to the flat.

He quietly enters the sitting room, closing the door behind him, and takes a few pleasurable moments to simply watch Sherlock and absorb himself in the music dancing throughout the room. The sight of Sherlock bowed over his violin, cradling it tenderly while pulling the most heart-wrenching sounds from the strings, is a sight of beauty.

It is one thing to watch the man at a crime scene, a flurry of brilliant and blinding activity as he labouriously snaps each piece into place-- then he is captivating, the centre of the universe. But times like now, when he is shuddering over the instrument, eyes closed and in a world of his own, he is breathtaking. He _is_ the universe.

John softly makes his way toward his chair, sinking into the cushions without drawing his glance away. He doesn't know classical music like Sherlock does, can almost never tell when a piece is freshly composed or hundreds of years old, but he has a knack for the emotion behind the notes. He feels every pull of the strings deep in his chest, elated when the music is light and springing, blinking back tears when it is sombre and melancholy. It's as though Sherlock is laying out a story for him, as plain as the written word, presented for John and John alone. He struggles to decipher it.

Eventually the last notes ring out. Sherlock slumps over with sudden exhaustion and does not speak.

“That was beautiful,” John says, like he always does. “Yours?”

“Bach's.”

“Ah.” John watches him for a few minutes, but Sherlock does not turn around. “Have you been playing all afternoon? You must be exhausted.”

Sherlock carefully places the violin its case. He straightens, shoulders stiff and bearing unnatural. “I'm out of practice. When I was a child I could play for days on end without stopping.”

John quirks a smile. “I bet everyone loved that.”

“Mother did.” Sherlock doesn't say any more on the subject and John knows better than to push. A beat. “You went to a different branch of your bank.”

“Wanted to cross through the park,” John offers, grinning at the usual display of ingenious deduction.

“Mmm.” Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, the gesture jerky and half-hearted.

“Are you alright?”

The startled response to this is so unexpected that John's unease grows tenfold. After a moment, Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “A trifle. A problem has been puzzling me.”

John leans forward. “A case?”

“No.” Sherlock doesn't offer more. Instead he whirls around, smiling the large, fake smile he uses when he wants to draw John's attention away from his latest experiment. Clapping his hands together, he says, “Come. I'm absolutely starving and Angelo's promised to hold a table for us.”

John hesitates. “Sherlock, if there's something I can do...”

“You can't,” he snaps, short and brisk. Softening his tone, he repeats, “You can't, John. Not this time. It's no matter. Now hurry up, before I collapse from low blood sugar like you keep harping me about.”

With uncertainty, John puts the matter aside for the time being and rises to his feet. “Alright,” he agrees, already reaching for his coat. “Dinner it is.”

It is the last time John hears Sherlock play for nearly three years.

***

  
_When I consider every thing that grows  
Holds in perfection but a little moment_  
Sonnet 15

John has seen dead men before. He has seen men broken and bleeding, twisted mockeries of what they once were. He has held dying men in his arms, felt them pass from the living into the afterlife, has watched the last rattle of death escape them.

John has never watched the man he loves-- _yes, admit it, you do love him_ \-- fall to his death before his very eyes.

It is a unique experience.

John refuses to move at first. They-- he's not sure who these non-entities are, just _they_ \-- tug and pull until John is forced to let go of Sherlock's wrist, the slender, pale wrist with no pulse beneath the skin. He falls onto the kerb, legs no longer supporting him, and struggles to find voice enough to scream at the growing crowd blocking his sight of Sherlock while the body is lifted onto a stretcher and rolled away.

“Oh god,” John gasps, railroad spikes driven through his chest over and over again. “Oh god.”

There are people everywhere. They huddle around him, sucking all the oxygen away, asking over and over if he's okay, if he needs anything, if he's been hurt, if--

John laughs. He laughs bitterly and harshly at the idea of 'okay'. It is not okay, it will never be okay, okay ended when Sherlock fell, _oh god, oh god, Sherlock, Sherlock, oh god_ \-- he laughs, long and loud, unable to stop, choking for air, wondering if he too is about to die, die from hysterical laughter and the inability to calm down, indifferent to calming down. He laughs uproariously and tears stream down his cheeks.

John doesn't remember much after that. Someone leads him into Bart's, that he knows. He vaguely recalls the pricking sensation of a needle and the fuzzy quality the world takes on soon after. Moments or hours or days later he recognizes the sight of Lestrade, though he has never seen the man look like this before-- skin grey, eyes bloodshot, and clothes rumpled, his expression collapsed into something sickening and too painful to bear.

He falls asleep at some point, in a hospital bed that appears beneath him. He falls asleep and he doesn't dream and for one blessed, brilliant, merciful hour, there is nothing.

Waking up is an exercise in pain that rivals only the morning after John was shot. His throat squeezes around a sob that threatens to escape, and John simply remains there, sprawled carelessly across the bed with his eyes squeezed shut.

“There's little use in putting it off,” a voice rings out. “Intentional ignorance will do you no service.”

“Fuck off,” John manages, rasping. “Fuck off.”

Cracking open an eye, he is instantly bombarded by the sight of Mycroft. Mycroft, poised and looming over the foot of the bed, looking as prim and arranged as ever. As though his own brother hadn't just--

Mycroft knowingly flinches. “Yes. Yes, I...” He coughs and looks away.

“Sherlock?” He needs to hear it. He needs to know. John would give anything to put this moment off, but it's going to come whether he likes it or not and it might as well be on his own terms.

“Sherlock is dead.” Mycroft wavers slightly, almost imperceptibly, and it's this uncharacteristic emotional display that causes the truth to seep into John's very being. Sherlock is dead. Sherlock was alive, and then he jumped, and now he is dead.

There is no more Sherlock, not ever again.

“Get out,” John croaks. “Get out before I kill you.”

Mycroft nods his departure, soundlessly slipping from the room.

For the next two hours, John stares at the white, bleak wall opposite him. He doesn't move.

***

  
_O! therefore, love, be of thyself so wary  
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;_  
Sonnet 22

Two months since Sherlock's return. Two months, plus three years thinking he was dead. Two months, plus three years, and two years since that first moment in Bart's. Two months, three years, and two years, and only just now is John learning that Sherlock tastes of tea, mint, and something vaguely chalk-like.

The kiss isn't blazing. It isn't fiery, full of passion and rage or desperation and need. It isn't full of the urge to affirm life, or adrenaline, or even longing. It's a kiss, like any other kiss John's experienced, though a kiss with slightly too much teeth and maybe a little drooling. But those are Sherlock's lips pressed against his own, Sherlock's tongue hesitantly exploring his mouth, Sherlock's taste engulfing him.

It is the best kiss John has ever experienced.

When they break apart, Sherlock steps back and clutches John's biceps. His glance flickers over John's face, searching and perplexed. “How long?”

John smiles sadly. “I couldn't say. Maybe the whole time. But when I saw you on the ground, when I thought-- I knew then.”

Sherlock winces and John takes the opportunity to untangle himself from their embrace. “John, I owe you a thousand--”

“I know.” John sighs. The last thing he wants is to ruin this moment by treading over old ground. They've spent two months going back and forth in the same ways, apologies and anger settling solidly between them. “I know. You don't have to say it.”

Briskly, Sherlock nods. An uncomfortable moment passes.

“How long?” John whispers, turning his face up toward Sherlock, watching him with eyes that may not always observe but certainly manage to see.

“I...” With a lick of his lips, Sherlock squares his shoulders. “Since the beginning.”

John starts. “Since Bart's?” All this time that they've wasted, dancing around one another, and Sherlock's known since the first moment they've--

“No,” he interrupts, a quirk to his lips. “Since the blanket.”

“The blank--” With a sharp inhale, John flashes back to that horrible afternoon and the discovery of an orange blanket beneath a bed with no owner. “The shock blanket,” he breathes. “That's why it was there. You-- you-- you _complete arse!_ ”

Sherlock stumbles, graceless for a brief second. “John--”

“This whole time!” John laughs as relief grows palpable between them. He laughs harder still at the glare this provokes, bending over to clasp his knees as he shakes from head to toe. “All this-- when you could have just _said_ \--”

“Yes, well, I don't recall any sweeping declarations from you either!” Sherlock snaps, turning on his heel.

“No, no.” John darts a hand out, catching Sherlock by the arm and holding him in place. Sobering, he shakes his head fervently. “No, you're right. I'm sorry. It's just the thought of the two of us, head over heels in love with one another, acting like completely fools and me, thinking--” The smile drops from his face, voice catching with sudden emotion. “Thinking I'd lost my chance. Oh god, what I wouldn't have given to be able to tell you.”

Sherlock pivots slowly, studiously examining John for a long, terrible moment. “What would you have given?”

“My life,” John mutters. “Anything. Everything.” He steps forward, pressing as close as he can and wrapping his arms around the one person who has mattered most.

“Don't say that,” Sherlock snaps. “Not your life, not ever that.”

“Okay,” John agrees, because if anyone understands, he does.

After a few minutes it occurs to him how foolish they must look, standing halfway in their flat, arms clasped around one another. But just as he clears his throat, about to break the moment and suggest they sit down for a long overdue chat, Sherlock speaks.

“You can tell me now.”

“Tell you?” Brow knit, John runs their conversation through his mind, the lines around his eyes softening as it strikes him. “Ah.” He coughs, embarrassed but determined to see this through. “Well, ah. I love you.”

Sherlock shivers beneath his touch. “Again.”

“I love you.”

“Kiss me again?”

“You're a demanding little shi-- mmph!”

Sherlock tastes of tea, mint, something chalk-like, and John.

***

  
_Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,  
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled:_  
Sonnet 6

It smells of the sea in every nook and cranny of the cottage. The pervasive scent of salt and crisp, clean air clings to John's clothes, to his skin, fills his nose entirely.

“So?” Sherlock breaks through, shifting minutely in the doorway. “What do you think?”

“It's...” When Sherlock first broached the idea, John was certain it was some sort of experiment, maybe a test to see how he'd react. There was no way that Sherlock actually had any intentions of leaving behind his work, London, 221B, and _retiring to the country_. Normal couples retired to the seaside, normal, boring, middle class couples with grown children and upcoming grandchildren, with savings accounts-- not _them_ , with their crime scenes and hostage situations, with their arguments about where to store the acid and how many body parts is too much.

But yet here John is, in the middle of a spacious cottage in Sussex near the cliffs lining the shoreline, eyes scanning the homey, welcoming rooms as Sherlock anxiously watches on.

“It's?” Sherlock prompts, biting the word off in his impatience. “Either you like it or you don't, John, it's not a difficult question.”

John stifles a smile. “It's quaint. I didn't think you could even _do_ quaint.” Glancing over, he snorts. “Oh calm down. This isn't bloody Sophie's choice. It's a home.” He turns back to the endless expanse of hardwood and high, sloping ceilings, humming quietly to himself. “A rather nice one at that.”

Sherlock audibly sighs. “You like it.”

Laughing, John crosses the room and rises up, pecking a kiss on a sharp cheekbone. “I love it, you berk.” He steps beside Sherlock, linking his arm around the other man's in a familiar gesture as he hesitantly asks, “You aren't worried that you'll get bored out here, with no murder and morgue?”

“You know,” Sherlock thoughtfully says, squeezing John's arm lightly, “I thought I might try my hand at beekeeping.”


End file.
